My body mourns the loss of hers, but her the sight of her makes up for the loss. The slope of her shoulders, the flare of her hips, and those delicious indents at the base of her back. Her hair is wild and her body bare but for the tiny scrap of her underwear and the last vestiges of her uniform tied around her neck.
She is irrésistible.
‘Oh, God.’ This is more a sound of appreciation than a plea for clemency as I slip my hand under the elastic of her underwear and cup her pussy. Her body responds instantly, writhing against me—against my cock and my hand—begging for relief.
‘You know what the French language doesn’t have?’ I part her sweet flesh, swiping a finger through her wetness to gather it against the part of her that throbs. ‘It doesn’t have enough words for this.’
‘Remy, please.’
‘This piece of heaven. This little bit of paradise.’ My words are a rasp of appreciation as I begin to love her clit; to pet and circle and tease, to paint the throbbing bud with her own arousal. Her breath hits the air in a series of tight gasps, her eyes rolling closed as her body begins to undulate, riding my hand. ‘This sweet, sweet pussy.’ My fingers still inside her, I twist the scrap of lace at her hip until it snaps.
Her eyes fly open, her movements fuller, her breath coming faster as I torture her a little more until she’s crying out and coming against my hand, her cries heightening as tiny spasms wrack her body as she tries to escape my hand.
‘Please, no,’ she pants. ‘Remy, please, I can’t.’ She drops her head, the curtain of her hair shielding her face, her body sagging with relief as I pull my fingers from her. I gather her hair over her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Her shoulder. The top of her spine.
‘Je veux te goûter.’ At my rasping words, her eyes flare. ‘I want to taste you . . . just so there can be no confusion.’
I drop to my heels, dragging the remains of her underwear with me before burying my head between her legs, making this piece of paradise my very own.
One swipe of my tongue, and she cries out. Two and she’s pushing up onto her toes, the tension in her body. My third swipe is a teasing caress to her inner thigh that makes her mewl a protest.
‘I can’t,’ she protests, even as she begins canting her hips, the threads of her building orgasm tied so tightly to the other, her mind and body at war.
‘Yes, you can. There can be no such thing as too much pleasure.’
‘There can be if it kills you,’ she whimpers. But then she complains no more.
The sounds of our joint pleasure begin to fill the darkened room; wet sucking, slick fingers fucking, my whispers of encouragement and growls of pleasure and those heady cries of hers that drive me fucking wild.
She undulates, chasing my touch as my hand slip away as I stand. The mirror was for her benefit—for her to see herself as I see her—but I find I can’t get close enough for satisfaction. I can’t feel enough, taste enough, see enough of her right now.
Her gaze is darkly dilated, her heavy lids widening as I feed those glistening fingers into her mouth. But she makes no protest, instead lapping and sucking the digits with the kind of filthy kind reverence that makes my cock ache.
I spin her to face me, pressing my lips against hers. The taste of her arousal from her own mouth is a turn-on like nothing else. She’s like a drug, an obsession, and I’m afraid I’ll never have enough. With the realisation, the moment turns fierce, my desperation to own and possess her growing as I push my tongue into her mouth. My cock grows harder at the way she accepts it. Sucks on it. Entwines it with her own. The way she moans as I find her clit, slippery and swollen, and her head falls back along with her moan.
I press her nakedness against the cool mirror, her gaze falling over my tattoos, her fingers teasing the trail of hair that dips into my open pants.
‘Your tongue is diabolical and your whispers divine.’ Her husky words echo under my lips as I kiss her again, working lips down her neck before using my teeth to pull her scarf loose.